Seiraid Eripmav
by cheaterinpink
Summary: To them, saying it backwards means they're absolutely, fantastically normal. A parody in ten wholesome counts. Part 2, Elena's POV: "We've been staring at each other for five hours." "So?" "My pelvic bone feels crushed." Damon/Elena centric chapter
1. Saved by a Salvatore

**Seiraid Eripmav  
**_An officious parody  
__Part 1: Saved by a Salvatore_

**Summary**: To them, saying it backwards means they're absolutely, fantastically normal. A parody in ten wholesome counts.

* * *

**First time Elena and Stefan meet  
****Through the eyes of one Miss Gilbert**

I hate speaking to Jeremy.

Speaking to Jeremy is like talking to a dead fish that insists that it's still alive. When you can obviously tell from the fact that its gills are feebly moving and its mouth is bubbling forth complete nonsensical nonsense that it isn't.

After being rudely abandoned by Jeremy (the absolute nerve of him!), I stand still for a couple of seconds, pursing my lips for comedic effect for the camera. Even though I'm just a normal average teenager in a town rumoured to be a hotspot for vampires, werewolves and the occasional unicorn, I have insisted since the age of three, when all my leftover Huggies merchandise was given away against my will to my little brotherly dweeb (gawd, I had such a soulful attachment to my diapers!), that I am the star of a hit sci-fi series. Hence, I always smile, even when I'm in utter pain. My audience of three million thanks me for the good acting, I'm sure.

Turning slowly, I take a look at myself in the mirror. _Gawd, I look remarkably stunning!_ I think as I make weird googly faces to myself. A guy emerges from the cubicle behind me just then, shoving me aside to wash his hands. He stares at me from the corner of his eyes, giving me a weird look. I assume it's because he's afraid I'll suddenly go ballistic and pee myself in front of him. Please, I stopped giving free shows in the eighth grade, after some jerk paid me five bucks to get him a soda. I mean, come on! Do I really look that easy?

Snorting prettily, I turn on my heels and march right out of the bathroom. If throwing me weird looks in return for allowing him to bask in my glorious presence is all I'm getting from him, he's totally on my revenge list. Slamming open the door in the hopes of making a big scene, I turn right, nearly splaying myself against a member of the opposite gender. How generous of me! Never under any other circumstance would a guy ever have the privilege of feeling my hair against his cheek.

Except, I guess, for the past twenty six boyfriends I've had in my seventeen years of life.

Sighing, I take a step back, raising my doe-like eyes to settle on the _bumped_. (_Bumped_ is what I call the person I bump into. Isn't that original? I could be the next J. K. Rowling at this rate! Matt Donovan has been the Bumped for seven years, incidentally.)

Man, I stay on point too often. I should put more of an effort into digressing, so that Neil Armstrong will offer me an arm to step onto Mars. He is still alive, right? I'll call the President later on today to find out, since Wikipedia is almost never accurate and written for two year olds.

_Bumped_ is currently giving me an awed stare, his eyes rolling from side to side to study my face. I know I'm gorgeous but could he not be so obvious? Doesn't he realise girls like it when guys ignore them because it makes them feel in total control and really special?

Then, a disturbing thought dawns on me.

Maybe he's a dinosaur in disguise.

But then, I shake my head in morbid fright at my lapse in intellectual brilliance. The more _likely_, more _logical _answer would be that his lack of understanding of the opposite sex is attributed to the fact that he has an IQ of 600. Too brilliant to pay attention to the rest of the world, perhaps. I nod, appeased by my stunning, and correct, revelation.

Albert Einstein, you've got some mean competition!

Because his staring (no, GAZING; staring is too mundane and totally unromantic) is starting to freak the bananas out of the banana salad I have right now in my Hello Kitty bag, I decide to tolerate him and engage in an epically epic staring contest to prove how much of a feminist I am. The world is sadly disillusioned if they think guys always win at staring contests. It has always been my dream, as a female rights activist, to enlighten the world on how many unnecessary working hours have been endowed to us (we asked to work; we didn't say anything about working 8 hours a day and overtime pay! What's wrong with the government?) as a result of our annoying protesting by winning every staring contest I engage in.

I blink a couple of times but point in Mr. Tanner's direction to distract the guy so he won't notice. I think I'm winning.

Finally, intimidated by my awesomeness, the guy looks away bashfully, as bashfully as Scandinavian sorcerers can, away, towards the sign on the door I just walked out of. Something catches his eyes, the colour of that Gatorade bottle in aisle four of the Town Market I saw the other day, and he coughs politely to gain my attention before asking, "Um… is this the men's room?"

_Um, no, Santa Claus, it's not!_ I think, extra sardonically. To be sure, I add in another bucket of sarcasm.

But, something in his eyes catches my attention and I swallow the sugar-coated remark. It's a look that says I-know-what-you-did-last-summer and she's-the-man. Instantly, I know what his crazy mind is up to. He's trying to seduce me! After being in my presence for a mere ten minutes, the fluttering of his dead heart (isn't it obvious he's a vampire?) and the electricity causing his brain of IQ 600 to implode have allowed him to deduce that I am the love of his eternally undead life. I feel accomplished; now, I no longer have to win a Pulitzer Prize to feel confident. Take that Edith Wharton!

This makes me feel unsettled. After learning the names of all the winners of the Pulitzer Prize by rote memorization a mere twenty two hours ago, I had been so certain I was going to join the rank of intimidating names (why must there be so many syllables? I curse the heavens!). Looks as if all that easy work is not going to pay off.

Resigned, I delete the information from my megawegategasuperhawt brain.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of answering the way he wants me to (when someone asks the obvious, they're just plainly begging for a pinch to the butt cheek, honestly), I let an innocent look slide neatly onto my face and stammer for a good thirty five point three seconds. Stammering lets him know I'm uneasy about answering, and hopefully encourages him to change the subject.

It's also good for strong bones and teeth. Not like what that crappy advertisement says about milk and calcium.

The media is replete with lies! Don't listen to it child!

Finally, irritated that he is continuing to stare at me with unmasked patience (gawd, man up! Interrupt me please! What do I have to do – paint 'change the topic' in scarlet letters on my forehead and sing The Rain in Spain?), I turn around to blatantly roll my eyes before turning back to him, smiling saccharinely and saying, "It's a long story."

He stares at me, confused. So cute. Pretending like he doesn't know what long story I'm talking about.

Beauty and the Beast, of course! Gawd, you'd think that IQ of 600 would do him some good, wouldn't you?

Wanting terribly to get out of his presence (I think I will puke if I have to look at his face for more than three consecutive seconds), I widen my smile, hurting my cheek bones in the process (maybe I can sue him for collateral damage…), and try to side-step him. At the exact same moment, he moves to the side to let me pass. Stumped, I look at him in awe.

Never have I found myself in such a situation before. It is weirdly invigorating! I smile devilishly to myself, thinking of all the blue balloons I could buy to celebrate the monumental moment. I move to step in the other direction, but he follows me and I end up blocked again.

I think this is the beginning of infatuation. Is it kind of too realistic of me to think of him bringing me flowers at midnight and draining the blood out of me as a kind of thirteen hour anniversary gift?

Maybe this is how Ron and Hermione feel when they look at each other.

But, suddenly, all I can think of is how great a Salsa partner he would be, if the school ever had a Salsa dance. Now I'll have to suggest it in an aggressive and violent manner to the board so that I can see how great of a match we are on the dance floor. Me and my flawless plans! No wonder no one can resist me.

Finally he moves aside, too bored with me to continue our little game. I feel a spark of hurt zip through me. Seconds later, I'm plotting his death. Death by skunk would be too obvious.

But if I killed him with a knife and left my fingerprints all over it, I'd totally save my botox-covered ass!

Again, no wonder no one can resist me…

Trying to cover up my evil intentions, I smile nicely at him, mouthing a sweet 'thank you' before walking past him. At the corner, I turn to look back at him, only to find him doing the Chicken Waddle. As everyone pounces on him to get a strand of hair to sell on ebay, due to his rising celebrity-ness written foggily in the stars and moon (easy, petty cash, people!), I sigh exaggeratedly for the camera.

I suppose I shouldn't kill him as a thank you gift from saving me from all the unwanted attention I'm constantly getting. I blow him a kiss as he shouts for me to help him.

But, since he's a vampire and has amazing supernatural strength and all, I think I'll just leave the touching of sweaty bodies to him.

* * *

**a/n:** i do love vamp d, i seriously do. i even like elena and stefan even though many are convinced they're dull. but the chance to do a parody was too much to resist. blame the sugar rush!


	2. Black Beauty

**Seiraid Eripmav  
**_An irksome parody  
__Part 2: Black Beauty_

**Summary**: To them, saying it backwards means they're absolutely, fantastically normal. A parody in ten wholesome counts.

* * *

Keeping up appearances is of utmost importance to him.

Because he wants to be the baddest boy in the whole wide world (just so he can get access to Willy Wonka's bad, bad chocolate world, mind you), he has to look the part and act the part.

That's exactly why he took acting classes in the world famous Julliard.

He looks sexily into the mirror. His hair neatly plaited into a stiff ponytail (kind of difficult, he finds, since his hair is so short), black eyeliner circling his eyes, he applies a thick layer of black lipstick before patting his cheeks with white powder. He wants to look like Edward Cullen, since he heard all the girls like sparkly men who can tear down trees with one hand.

He sprays body glitter over his leather jacket and black tights, grinning wildly.

He's so ready to meet this Elena. He peeks out of the window, watching her drive down the road. Using his super duper hearing ability, he listens to the song she's playing on the radio – Barbie Girl by Aqua, and he's so proud he knows it. Sighing gleefully, just like he would if his princess had finally arrived to save him from the top of a high tower (or was it the prince that saved the princess? _Technicalities_, he dismisses), he props his chin up on his palms, resting his elbows on the window sill.

He flutters his eyelashes. 'Cause that's something Edward would do, right?

* * *

**First time Damon and Elena meet  
****Through the eyes of one Miss Gilbert**

I've never been to the Boarding House, so I'm reasonably unsurprised when it looks like a castle, the kind with a moat and stuff. Suitably impressed with Stefan for being unafraid to show his vampire side, I slam the car door shut behind me and march over the bumpy, weed-riddled front lawn, tripping only a hundred and two times, towards the ornately designed front gates. They tower over me, intimidating in their rustic, rusty glory.

I'm kind of afraid to touch it, because I can't recall the last time I had my tetanus shot (or a bullet to my chest, for that manner) so I rip off my sleeve and use it to push the gate open. Grinning at my intelligence, I amber in. In my excitement, my bare arm brushes against the rusty gate and I shriek.

"Spider! Spider!" I yelp, gripping my forearm, tears running down my cheeks. Distantly, I hear the front door creak creepily open and a set of footsteps coming towards me. Through my hazy vision, I can just barely make out a man dressed in black, with white underwear pulled over his tights, rushing towards me. The opportunity is just too great; I find myself pretending to faint, anticipating his hands rubbing over my fevered skin and soft lips peppering my face with feather-like kisses. The notion makes me want to ravage a deer.

"Fair maiden!" he cries, bending down to check my arms. "What foul creature ambushed you?"

"That!" I mutter shakily, pointing strongly at the evil gate. It grins down at us, like Whinny the Pooh.

I've always hated Whinny the Pooh.

"Don't worry, my princess! I shall save you!" He runs over to the gate, as I shout proud words of encouragement and sweetly uttered assurances of my affection simultaneously (that's a big word I learned in the 2nd grade; number one reason I'm reminded I'm dumb every day), and, with an almighty swing, sends his fist colliding with the gate.

"OUCH!" he howls, stumbling back, cradling his bruised fingers with a wounded expression on his face. In odious retaliation, he delivers a weak kick to the gate and it doubles over, smashing to the ground, covering us in noxious dust. He shouts in achievement, running back to me and picking me up like I weighed like an elephant (I told you stuttering gives you strong bones and teeth!) and crawling into the house. Standing up, he walks over to the dining table, dumping me unceremoniously to the floor. The burst of pain that punches through my spine is an eager confirmation that he is my soul mate, not that pussy, tango-wannabe Stefan Salvatore.

I spit out his name with such disgust it amazes me how blue my voice is.

"Who are you?" I ask in wonder, gazing up unashamedly at my true love. He's off to the side of the room now, indulging in a bottle of Bourbon.

"Damon Salvatore," he replies suavely, stressing on the 'Damon'. "As in, O Damn."

"That's terrible!" I exclaim, shaking my head. I know guys don't like to be complimented as they fear their egos might shatter, so I try not to rile them up. Damon shrugs, a melancholic look overcoming his sinfully, heartrendingly, magically, amazingly, gut-wrenchingly, eye-poppingly, arm-shakingly beautiful face.

"I have, many a times, had people call me that. I put their heads so far up their ass, they had to drink their own pee."

I smile at that. "Boy, you're so strong." I get up, walking over to him. I place a hand on his bulging arm, sending him loving vibes with my sheer might. He grins down at me, revealing the most beautifully black and rotten teeth I've ever had the pleasure of seeing. I know it will have me tossing in bed dreaming wonderful dreams of suing the calcium industry.

I should teach him to stutter more.

"Shall we make out impassionedly now until the sun falls down?" I ask, making my voice as high-pitched and bored as I possibly can without making me look asinine. I also know that guys hate girls who are sexy and too interested.

"You are the girl of my dreams!" he shouts, pumping his fist into the air and whooping. Without further hesitation, he sweeps me into his arms, spinning me round and round. I laugh with abandon, clutching his strong muscles and feeling as if I am in heaven.

"Okay, tired." He drops me to the ground, and the bone-rattling pain of the fall is parallel to how poetically painful my love for him is. I crawl over to his bare toes, kissing the dirty nails to show how willing I am to show my love for him. I've always harboured a phobia of dirty nails ever since I was five, and I want to show him how different our love is, even if it will eventually fade when I graduate from high school. He is dearly special to me, and I refuse to let him go until I have to.

He yelps, giggling as he jerks his foot, sending me sprawling halfway across the room. "Sorry," he whispers conspiratorially, wiggling his eyebrows, which are plaited, "that tickled." He giggles again.

"It's okay," I assure him, patting my hair to make sure my butt's fine. Then, I smell it. The metallic red of it. The pinch of salt and plasma and other dead things.

"Are you grilling steak?" I ask, even as I touch my fingers to my lips and pull them away to see red. I'm bleeding rainbows, I think happily.

I allow the thick stream of blood to congeal on my lips, knowing I have better things to do, like buy air tickets to China or stage a rebellion in Australia to free the Koala bears from the wild. I look over at Damon, expecting him to kiss my forehead in sorrow but instead he looks quite stiff. His eyes have suddenly become the most beautiful raging black and weird blood veins have sprouted out of his skin around his eyes.

"Where'd you get the awesome make-up?" I ask, as he stalks towards me. His hand drifts daintily over my lips, collecting blood, and as I protest, not wanting him to stain his clothes because of me, he brings the blood to his lips. His tongue darts out, and his eyes close in barely leashed pleasure. A low groan that's so irresistible escapes his luscious mouth and I have to pinch myself at my shoulder blade to prevent myself from hyperventilating and going to hell.

His eyes suddenly spring open and he's this ferocious monster, sharp teeth apparent as he unhinges his strong jaw. I gulp, feeling excitement bloom exponentially in my chest, as he leans forward to lick my lips. I nearly collapse in ecstasy. He's doing what Stefan never could, giving himself over to his dark side. _For me._ The thought makes me froth over in uncontained delight. While he drags me to his dungeon, his lips never pausing in their exploration of my facial skin and sweat pores, I cannot help repeating the first hundred digits of _pi_ in an effort to calm myself.

I suddenly remember that guys don't like it when girls are calm so I abruptly break out into petrified screams. Damon laughs.

Gawd, if this is heaven, I never want to go to hell.

* * *

Later that night, Damon takes me home, in my pallid and pasty beauty. He offers to jump me through my window and I accept, not wanting to miss out on any vampire adventures. I've been deprived my whole life, I realize now. He scoops me up in his very capable arms and I feel the sudden rush of wind against my skin. The excitement stops me from groaning and peeing in my pants when my head thumps against the window frame. I fall backwards into my room, which is littered with six year old sex magazines and adorned with pornographic pictures of men in their eighties. There's just something irresistibly sexy about flabby skin and gray hair.

I hear a crash below and peek over the window sill to see Damon in the bushes. He grins apologetically up at me.

"I need to be invited in," he says. My mouth forms a large 'O' and I say, "I formally invite you into my house." Damon gets up, brushing the beetles and leaves off his otherwise immaculate batman outfit. Clearing his throat, he raises his arms vertically into the air. It strikes me then how much he looks like a manly ballerina.

"Howabunga!" he screams, jetting up into the air.

Just then, Jenna bursts into the room, cigar in her mouth and gun ready in her hands, eyes all ablaze.

"Who goes there?" she growls, scanning the room. Spying a bug in the ceiling, she immediately cocks the gun, sending a bullet right into the bug's eye. She grins.

"Nobody. I just fell off the floor," I say, by way of explanation. She nods, patting me on the shoulder.

"I'm glad the clumsiness is genetic. There's a contest this year for floor-fallers and I think you'd be just the one to enter it."

"I'll think about it," I agree, envisioning a golden medal stating 'Number 1 Floor-faller' strangling my neck. It makes me pleased.

Appeased, she moves to leave the room. Just then, Damon falls into the room, landing on top of me. I fall down to the floor with a solid 'OOF'.

Jenna cocks her gun. She shoots. I watch, stunned, as the bullet zooms through the air. Damon cries.

"Bulls-eye," she yells, grinning toothily, as the bullet goes through the bug's other eye. "I'll leave you two to it then." The door closes soundly behind her.

I turn to stare up at Damon. He looks down at me lovingly.

Eventually, I have to say something.

"We've been staring at each other for five hours."

Damon shrugs carelessly. "So?"

"My pelvic bone feels crushed."

"Oh." Damon looks apologetic. He shifts. "Better?"

"Much," I wheeze, finding it kind of hard to breathe as he sits on my neck.

"Come on, I'll get you to bed," he offers, jumping off and pulling me up by the hair. Loving his danger and violence, I giggle as he shoves me onto the bed, tossing my teddy bear to me before rolling in next to me.

"Good night," he mutters, cuddling in next to my foot.

"Night," I whisper back, drooling into his hair.

As I fall into a deep slumber, I dream of suing the companies that produce milk products. I have never been more contented.


End file.
